


fiction, future and prediction

by illinois_e



Series: be my rest, be my fantasy [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mother-Son Relationship, i would write them ALL if i could, mother/son relationships give me life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illinois_e/pseuds/illinois_e
Summary: in a dream, neil feels his mother’s hands close around his throat and can’t decide if it’s a caress or a murder. in another, she sings him a lullaby and he can’t remember how she looked like before the smoke rose from the wreckage of that rental car, before his nostrils filled with the stench of gasoline, of scarred flesh and skin and bones. of blood.he loves her—what a scary thought.





	fiction, future and prediction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asiren (meliorismo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorismo/gifts).



> this is a birthday present for my best friend, meliorismo, like me a princess of mother/son fics. i love u girl ure the best and this series would still be in the planning stage without u.  
> (ps: if you feel there's a need for me to put the graphic depictions of violence warning, please tell me!)
> 
> "well, you do enough talk  
> my little hawk, why do you cry?  
> tell me, what did you learn from the tillamook burn?  
> or the fourth of july?  
> we’re all gonna die."
> 
> sufjan stevens — fourth of july

mary hated staying too much time in one place with the same force nathaniel loved it.

as much as he knew they had to keep running, as much as he had already met the fury of his father’s henchmen, and as much as he’d got close to death, he still couldn’t shake off the sadness that took upon him whenever his mother decided they should be on the move again. nathaniel hated himself for it—for being still a child, hopeful and stupid, dreaming of the day his father would just give up on them and let them live their lives in peace.

while that day didn’t came, they ran and hide like the world’s tiniest mice, for his father was the most feral cat nathaniel had ever met.

at night, just moments before falling asleep, nathaniel would wish himself to be a tree, one so big that his roots stretched for countless miles under the earth, and there wasn’t anything that could move him from his place. in his almost-dream, dimaccio and lola and romero and jackson would all try to shoot him, but the bullets couldn’t scratch the thick bark protecting him; then, his father would come, axe in hand, but no matter how many times he struck the tree, not even a single splinter fell from it. and they would go away, the baltimore butcher and his men, while nathaniel stayed.

he didn’t need to be a tree. he could be a fish, or a butterfly, or a raven, or a fox—just not a mouse. anything but nathaniel wesninski, and it would be enough for him.

(sometimes nathaniel fancied that the fucking cockroaches were happier than him)

there was, however, one thing nathaniel liked more than staying somewhere: staying alive. so, when his mother screamed at him and pulled his hair because he was stupid and his father’s men had found them again, he did what he knew to do best. 

he slung his duffel bag over one shoulder, held tight on his mother’s hand and ran.

 

* * *

 

they never spent more than a year continually at the same country. most of the time they didn’t came even close—nathan had a talent for finding them two just as they were getting used to somewhere new, which was in between the fourth and fifth month. this time, they were getting nearing the ten-months mark in montreal — still too close to baltimore, in nathaniel’s opinion, but it’s his mother who chooses, never him — and not a sign of the butcher’s work could be seen.

there was no nathaniel wesninski there. in his place lived oliver wright, son of alice wright and her rich ex-boyfriend, who sent them a fat amount of cash every month. oliver was born and raised in london, but his mother’s work had brought him to canada with her. fortunately, they both knew a bit of french from a summer trip to paris, two years prior.

nathaniel would die to truly be oliver wright for one day, to know how the world spins when your father is not a murderer.

“oliver,” his mother asked at dinner—coffee, bread, and scrambled eggs, which nathaniel/oliver eats in small bites, like the mouse he is. “how was school today?”

code for: did anything unusual happen? do you feel your father is closing on us? did anybody strange try to talk to you? did  _ you  _ talk to someone? 

“it was fine,” nathaniel answered, looking down. he found himself more comfortable with his mother when he wasn't looking her in the eyes, when he couldn't see the exhaustion spilling through the cracks in her armor, when she didn’t look like his savior, the only reason he was still alive. “there's a lot of homework for tomorrow, but i think i can do it.”

“is it chemistry?” nathaniel nodded. it was nice to know that his mother still remembered these silly things about him—hated chemistry, hotdogs, happy tunes for the morning alarm.”i can help you, if you need.”

_ yes _ , he wanted to say.  _ yes please help me stay with me don’t scream at me don’t hit me i love you. _

“don’t worry, it’s mostly calculation. the volume of molecules or whatever.” he gulped down the last bite of bread and rose from his chair. “i’m fine.” fine fine fine fine.

“oh, okay then.” she didn’t push him. mary was also fine fine fine. “do you mind if i watch tv or the noise will bother you?

“it won’t.” it never did, not once. mary nodded at him—she didn’t speak much. nathaniel wondered if it tired her, more than running around cities and countries like a rabbit inside a cage. maybe it did. maybe she looked at the son for whom she threw away her whole life and got tired at the simple sight of him. it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

mary’s fingers thrummed a melody in the armrest while she watched the hero turn the tide of the battle in that night’s episode of her favorite soap opera, and nathaniel (oliver jack richard alex christopher ashley and everyone else) sneaked glances at her thin fingers, the skin that clung into bone, and wondered how could they feel so strong every time she struck him in the back.

 

* * *

 

she said they were running because his father hit them.  _ he was going to kill you _ , she said.  _ you’re my son; i had to save you.  _ but if she hits him so much sometimes he can’t get up from the floor because he feels dizzy and his stomach is threatening to spill all over the floor, is she saving him or only herself?

 

* * *

 

“you’re funny, oliver.” it took nathaniel three seconds to remember he was oliver, and two more until he turned his head in the direction of the voice. in his defense, he hadn’t sleep at all the night before, and his head felt like a black hole where things got in only to get lost.

his mother would scream at him, if she knew.

“me?”

“yeah. there isn’t another oliver here, you know.” it was emma who said it, with her shiny black hair tied loosely in a ponytail and the hint of a smirk gracing her lips. “you’re not funny in the way anyone else expects it, but— i don’t know. i just think you’re funny.”

nathaniel counted until ten in his head, planted his feet in the hot concrete and tried not to run. 

(so much for a boy who only wanted to stay)

“uh… thanks?” he said, even if he was as far from thankful as it could get. oliver wright wasn’t supposed to be funny; he was supposed to be the quiet guy who liked math too much and who always ate lunch alone, and that no one would miss for long or get curious about when he inevitably vanished into thin air. “i’m not… i don’t know. it’s not like i try to be funny or something.”

emma chuckled, and with her eyes twinkling in mirth she looked like some romantic interest from a movie he’d watched not long ago. it was not usual for nathaniel to fancy himself the hero, but he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

“that’s the whole point, isn’t it? you wouldn’t be  _ truly _ funny if you forced it, like the other boys in our class.” nathaniel nodded because he didn’t know what else to do. emma apparently took that as shyness, and not survival instinct. she pursed her his and tilted her head up to look at him. “hey, so. i was thinking… would you want to catch a movie with me? my brother works half-shifts at the local movie theater, so he can get us a nice discount. if you want to.”

you don’t want to, said the hands fisting his hair and pulling. you don’t want to, said the screams at his ear and the half-moon shaped cuts on the soft flesh of his biceps. you don’t want to, said the sound of gunshot, the horrible stench of blood.

“i want to,” said nathaniel.

emma’s smile could illuminate the dark room where once his father skinned a man in front of him. “great! we can go there together, after tomorrow’s class.” she walked two steps into his personal space and stood on her tiptoes to leave a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “it’s a date!” she said, skipping steps, without looking back to see how he would react.

“it’s a date,” he whispered to himself — like a prayer and curse —  in the bathroom of a gas station a few blocks from home, where he cleaned the lipstick smudge emma left on his face, so his mother wouldn’t not know.

 

* * *

 

nathaniel had grown well used to the blurred road swishing by the window, the telltale sign l of a car that was going much too faster than what was considered safe.

that, however, was safer than staying in montreal, now that romero had found them.

“i don’t know what’s the matter with you,” his mother said, with her teeth gritted and her hands holding the wheel with so much force nathaniel wondered how the material hadn’t given in already. “simple instructions: don’t look back. don’t slow down. don’t trust anyone. and yet,  _ and yet _ , nathaniel, you can’t listen to it. sometimes i wonder if you have a brain at all.”

it was a rare thing for his mother to use his real name. for once, they were always with an alias ready at hand, and she used it so they could get used for public situations. also, it was almost her husband’s name, and that was a word she wished on a star to forget.

“i’m sorry.” nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. “i didn’t knew.”

sorry, mother. i didn’t knew it was a trap. i didn’t knew romero had found us way earlier, that he’d paid emma fifty bucks so that she would ask me to the movies. i didn’t knew he was waiting for me there, with a gun and a knife and a smile. i didn’t knew. i swear.

mary didn’t look at him either. she was stepping too hard in the gas pedal to take her eyes off the road, and she wouldn’t plunge them both to their deaths, not when they barely managed to escape it once more.

“you’re always sorry.” it was the only thing she said, under her breath, and if nathaniel looked closely he would be able to see the anger slipping through her pores. anger and fear. “you never know.”

he closed his hands into fists over his thighs, over his — plain dull invisible — grey sweatpants. the worst thing, and the thing he will not tell his mother  _ ever _ , is that he doesn’t regret it. doesn’t matter that he never felt anything for emma, or that she was probably lying about him being funny, or whatever. doesn’t matter. he doesn’t regret it.

his mother said they’re running so they can live, but nathaniel doesn’t think he’s living, not truly—running and hiding and pretending to be someone they could never be. if you run, the beast catches you; if you stay, the beast eats you. there’s no living when your father dwells in death. nathaniel had learned that already, but his mother deluded herself, pretended to be good. to be fine. long life living if living can be this.

nathaniel just wanted to stay.

“i’m sorry,” he repeated, because he didn’t knew what else to say. “i only… i was stupid, i know. i’m sorry.”

her mother sighed. “it’s okay, child.” she avoided his name now, as if she was reminded for who was he named for. “enough is enough. get some sleep.”

he nodded, then, reclining his seat so he could lay down. he counted five minutes in his head before he evened his breathing, just like he learned, and feigned to be asleep. mary lowered the her window and lit a cigarette. nathaniel let the smell of it fill his lungs like a blessing, a promise of tomorrow.

behind them, montreal became smaller and smaller, bright and dream-like, as nathaniel wesninski laid oliver wright’s bones to rest.

 

* * *

 

kevin visits his mother’s tomb once a year—he couldn’t, back when he lived the nest. couldn’t leave the place, couldn’t leave exy, not even for a minute, and much less for a woman long dead. now, at palmetto state, with no cane guaranteed to fall at his back should he disobey, he does the traject every december, sweeps the snow that covers her grave marker, lights a candle for her spirit, wherever it is. 

neil would like to visit his mother’s tomb. he fancies with himself that he can easily find the exact place where he buried her scorched bones, somewhere in the lost coast. maybe he should really visit her, tell her about south carolina and the foxes and andrew, about how terrified he was at beginning, and how the stars decided to work in his favor this time. he wants to tell her about exy, and how the racket in his hands that once had the power to decide whether or not he should die is now the only thing keeping him alive. 

he wants to ask why she pulled his hair with such force that made his scalp bleed, wants to say sorry about all the times he fucked up and blew their cover, wants to know what the hell did she put in her pancakes recipe that made it taste like heaven. he wants to sit down and have a conversation, like a normal mother and a normal son, tell her he has a boyfriend, that they plan on moving together after he graduates.  _ i’m fine _ , he wants to say to her, and he doesn’t want it to be a lie.

but mary hatford is dead, like kayleigh day is dead and like tilda minyard is dead, and neil can’t talk to her, can’t raise her from the sand where she sleeps, unmoving, unable to run. she’s dead, but the memory of her sticks to neil like glue whenever his grief arises with the tide and the promises he broke wither like flowers at her once-would-be grave. don’t look back. don’t slow don’t. don’t trust anyone. be anyone but yourself, and never be anyone for too long.

he doesn’t regret breaking them. nathaniel abram wesninski was a boy who only wanted to stay, but he never could. in the end, neil abram josten stayed for him.

neil wonders if she would be proud of him. he’d never once saw his mother proud of something, but he thinks as he hears his name being called before the start of the game that yes, she would. she would come to the court, if she were alive. maybe she would smile at him—neil dreams high, and he likes it.

his hands are cradled at his chest as if there’s something of her inside them, a memoir that was not lost beneath fire and gasoline. he wishes for a necklace, a ring, a lock of hair, anything he can build a shrine with, pray for her soul—to her soul. his hands are empty. the less things he had in the duffel bag the better. she would’ve been proud of him. he knows it.

_ i’m fine now, mother, _ he whispers, hoping the wind will somehow carry his words to a long forgotten beach in california.  _ i’m good. you took care of me—now you can rest.  _


End file.
